Fiction

The Hunt

Daily Special 16: A day-trader’s secret nightlife

There she is: my next mark.

I press my tongue against my teeth, watching her. She holds a half-empty beer to her cheek as she sways her hips to the music, clearly intoxicated.

I’m not the only one with eyes on her; half the men in this club are clearly interested, their eyes darting to her. I know a predator when I see one, and I see thirteen, maybe fourteen potential rapists here tonight. Most of them would never consider themselves that, but the way they’re eying this woman, who is slack-jawed and vacant-eyed (from molly?), says everything I need to know about them.

She’ll be better off with me.

One of the men, a drunken college bro egged on by an even drunker frat brother, approaches her as she takes another sip of her beer. She has a line of bright red lipstick smeared where the plastic cup had been resting just under the jut of her cheekbone. The college bro wipes at the smear with his thumb, leaning in close to her ear. Tryhard.

She’s laughing, still swaying, looking up at him with parted lips. He’s a foot taller than her and as broad as a linebacker. The flashing lights make her eyes sparkle. There’s something bright in them, a pique of interest.

This has gone far enough, I think, and rise from my seat at the bar.

“Can I get a glass of water?” I ask the bartender, who also seems to have noticed the girl. She’s alone tonight or has lost her party. “For her,” I clarify, and the bartender nods. He sees my neat suit, noting my one whisky on the rocks. Unlike these other assholes, I’m clearly clean and unusually sober.

Taking the water, I weave my way through the bodies on the dance floor. She’s been led off to the side of the room by the linebacker, much nearer the door than she was before. When I reach them, she’s leaning on him and trying to take off one of her sparkly pink heels.

“Hey Sophie,” I say politely and smile as her eyes meet mine. I don’t pay linebacker the slightest bit of attention. “Thought you could use a glass of water. There’s a spot at the bar open if you want to sit down.”

A vein throbs in the linebacker’s neck. She looks at me curiously. Her name isn’t Sophie. She eyes my suit, a little clarity establishing itself on her face. She seems interested.

“Hey buddy, I’m taking care of — ” the linebacker says, but he’s already lost her. I’m clearly the much better choice if she’s looking for someone to go home with. If she isn’t, I’m a much safer drinking companion.

She takes the water and gulps it down. “Thanks,” she says, draping herself over my shoulders. In heels, she is about my height, but light as a ragdoll. The linebacker, defeated, retreats back to his bros.

I lead her back to my barstool and help her onto it. “Another water,” I tell the bartender, who seems glad to not need to get involved.

“With lemon,” she adds, and then hiccups delightfully. I place a steadying hand on her back to keep her firmly on the stool. Lolling her head back to get a look at me in the better lighting by the bar, she says, “You trying to save me? He was just being friendly.”

“Oh, I know friendly,” I say, glancing at the pack of frat bros. “Let’s sober you up a bit, huh?” I nudge her new glass of water, with lemon, toward her. She takes another big gulp of it and leans against my chest.

“So hard to meet good guys nowadays,” she says, slurring her words a bit. “I’m a dancer. What do you do?”

“I’m a day-trader,” I say. Her brow furrows. “I work in finance. Stocks, securities, mutual funds…”

Her lips part and I can tell she’s excited at the prospect of me. I encourage her to drink more water, order another one (with lemon), and begin to explain the ins and outs of investment capital, using as much jargon as possible, in a low, slow voice. She is mesmerized.

After her third glass of water, I tell the bartender I’m calling her a cab. He seems unconcerned, having listened to the conversation. She is safe with me.

We walk out of the club together, my jacket over her shoulders. She asks to split the cab with me. I oblige. When we reach her hotel, she invites me up for a drink. This isn’t normally how I do things, but she’s insistent, handsy, and the cabbie seems to think we’re together.

In the elevator, she kisses me wetly, pressing her whole body against mine. I let her maul me and resist the urge to look at the security camera in the corner.

We stumble to her room. She opens the door with a card key retrieved from her ample cleavage. Normally, we’d have a drink, sit and talk some more, I’d let her doze off before I went for the kill — but here she was, already undressing, undoing my shirt buttons, pushing me toward the bed. We fall onto it together in a jumble of limbs.

In my overexcitement, I grab her forcefully and sink my teeth into her neck without thinking. Poor thing, I realize, will feel the life leaving her body. It’s so much better when they sleep through it. But instead of the fresh, sweet blood I am expecting, an acrid taste fills my mouth. She freezes, her giggling stopping immediately.

“Oh fuck not again,” she says in far too sober a voice, and then pulls away from me with unexpected strength. She flips on the light and I see her eyes have turned a soulless black, and inky blood drips from her neck wound into her cleavage. “A vampire? Really?”

I sigh and begin rebuttoning my shirt. “A succubus. Figures.”

She climbs onto the bed beside me, lights a cigarette, and offers me a puff. We will both go home unsatisfied tonight.

Thank you Ravyne Hawke for today’s fiction prompt: “You are a day-trader with an unusual nightlife. Write a scene or full story describing what your nights are like. How does this affect your day job? / Word Length — up to 1000 words / Restrictions — Something goes horribly wrong.”

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